Naught is thy body but a tent, Khayyam, thy soul is
its inhabitant, and its last, long home annihilation is.
When thy soul leaves the tent, the slaves arise and
strike it ere they pitch it for the oncoming soul.
Khayyam, who sewed the tents of philosophic lore, is
suddenly engulfed within the crucible of grief, and there
is burned. The shears of Fate have cut the thread of
his existence; the Auctioneer of Life has sold him for
a song.
In springtime let me sit upon the edge of a broad
field with one fair girl, and wine in plenty if wine is at
hand. Though this may culpable be thought, I should
be worse than any dog did I not dream of Paradise.
Rose-colored wine in crystal cups delights. It charms
when sipped to lutes' melodious airs or to the plaintive
throbbing of the harp. The devotee who knows not of
the joy that is in wine is charming [to himself] or
when a thousand miles between us yawn.
The time we pass in this world has no worth without
the wine-cup and the wine. It also needs the swelling
sound of Irak's flute. Incessant watching of things here
below has told me that in pleasure and in joy alone are
worth: the rest is naught.